Surviving The Evacuation | Life Goes On (Book 2): No More News

by Tayell, Frank

  “You okay?” Corrie asked, as the tank rumbled on, crushing the undead as it rolled towards the stalled car.

  “Ask me again in a couple of hours,” Pete said. His hand shook as he reached, again, for his holstered pistol. He gripped his wrist, and tried to push fear away.

  As guns barked, the tank rumbled onward, slowing as it neared the car, but not stopping until it had bumped into the smaller vehicle. Even as the car creaked in protest, Pete jumped down to its roof.

  “So that’s what it takes to get you to go for a run,” Olivia said, lowering her rifle now that others had joined the battle. “Let’s get these people onto the tank.”

  “Windshield or door?” Pete asked.

  Olivia nodded towards the trees. “Either, but do it quick.”

  The zombies near the car were dead, but coming through the trees were dozens more. Olivia ejected her empty magazine, reloading as Pete jumped down, opening the passenger door.

  As the car’s occupants scrambled up onto the tank, he looked to the trees, and wished he hadn’t. They were full of the undead. Despite how many had been shot. Despite how many were being shot every second, more came. For all the tank’s formidable armour, its weapons remained silent because the ammunition had been removed while it was under repair. Most of the mechanics had now formed a kneeling ring on the armour, firing at the undead approaching from the treeline. One of the car’s passengers had joined them, a hunting rifle in her hands. Pete climbed back up onto the car, then onto the tank, Olivia a step behind, and Rufus, leaping up last, a half step behind her.

  “Are we retreating?” Pete asked.

  “Negative,” one of the mechanics said. “The general’s orders. We’re to hold the enemy south of the airport until reinforcements arrive.”

  From where? How long would that be? He wanted to ask those questions and a dozen more, but doubted the mechanic would know the answer. Now that the man had started firing again, he doubted he’d be able to hear. As the tank began rumbling backwards, he could barely hear his own thoughts. Rufus nuzzled closer, seemingly disconcerted by the loud noise. A noise loud enough to lure the undead.

  His hands still shook, but he freed the pistol, holding it ready, waiting for the moment the undead came within range.

  Instead, above, he heard a different sound. Music, barely audible over the beat of a helicopter’s rotors and the grind of the tank’s tracks. Not Wagner, but something incongruously cheery that was drowned by the far faster beat of a Gatling gun ripping into the trees. The machine gun roared. Bark flew. Bone broke. Branches snapped. Limbs were torn from their sockets. A second machine gun on a second helicopter joined the first. Then a third, a fourth, a fifth, hovering above the trees, laying down fire. The machine gun in the first helicopter went silent. The chopper buzzed low, hovering over the road. At two metres from the ground, people jumped out. Led by a short woman in a long leather trench-coat wielding a pistol in both hands, four soldiers followed. Five in total. Only five. All armed, but so few. Even as these newcomers ran to the abandoned car, the helicopter shot back into the sky, circling east until the machine gunner had a clear angle on the trees. It was the second helicopter’s turn to come in low, to disgorge its passengers who joined the defensive line around the stalled car. The tank driver changed gears and directions, shifting from a slow reverse to just-as-slow an advance, halting the tank a metre from the car just as the third helicopter unloaded its handful of crew.

  It wouldn’t be enough. Two of the helicopters, empty of ammo and passengers, turned towards the airport. Hopefully to get more reinforcements. And hopefully they wouldn’t need to refuel first. But it still wouldn’t be enough.

  Olivia, next to him, had stopped firing. “Out,” she mouthed.

  Pete reached into his pouch, pulling out his one, solitary, spare magazine, and handed it to her. She smiled and reloaded.

  No, it wouldn’t be enough. The undead still came on. Less numerous than before, but there were still hundreds. And everyone would soon be out of ammo. They’d retreat to the airfield, he supposed. And then…

  The sound of the tank’s engine changed. Except it wasn’t the vehicle on which he was perched. It came from along the road. At top speed, tearing up the highway, raced a pair of tanks. One Canadian Leopard and one American Abrams. And behind came dozens more. Reinforcements had arrived. And perhaps they would be enough.

  Chapter 29 - The Wages of Courage

  Wawa

  “You and me both, buddy,” Pete said as he and a wearily wary Rufus picked their way through the corpses, over to where Olivia stood by a tank.

  “I offered to bandage his leg,” Olivia said, indicating the wounded gate-guard. He was sitting on the hood of the battered pink car, talking softly with the woman in the trench coat. “He said there was no point.”

  “He was bitten?” Pete asked.

  “Yep.”

  “You see the woman in the trench coat speaking to him?” Pete said. “She’s General Yoon.”

  “She is?” Olivia asked.

  The general had grey hair cropped close to her head, on which a bald patch formed a neat Y over what had to be a scar.

  “And you know the four guys who got out of the helicopter with her?” Pete asked. “Those are her staff officers. One’s Canadian Army. One’s Air Force. One’s French. I think he’s a sailor. That guy with the turban, he’s Indian. I mean actually in the Indian Army. They were at a conference when this began. Did you know the military had conferences? It’s weird, isn’t it? Thinking of them in some airport hotel drinking cheap coffee and stale donuts, and talking about weapons and war.”

  “I bet they get better catering than we did at those carpet trade shows,” Olivia said.

  Rufus yipped.

  “Hey,” Corrie said, coming over. “Spare ammo. Here.” She handed them a magazine each. “I was speaking to those flight attendants,” she continued. “They flew here from Pittsburgh. Tried to land on a road, and ended with their plane partly in a field, partly in a lake, about an hour north. There were more passengers aboard. More kids.”

  “We should tell the general,” Pete said, pointing to where she was still talking to the injured gate-guard.

  As they approached, the general patted the injured gate-guard’s arm, stepped back, and, in one fluid movement, drew and fired her pistol. The man slumped forward, almost falling before the turbaned officer caught him, and carefully laid him on the ground.

  “What…” Pete stammered.

  The general turned around, seeing the trio for the first time. “It was at his request,” she said. “He was bitten. He would have turned. I gave him the option of waiting. He requested a more peaceful end.”

  “You…” Pete began again.

  “No one is special,” the general said, her voice as cold and firm as diamond. “A swift end is the one kindness we must all hope for, and which we expect everyone else to offer. You are the Americans now working for the Australians?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Corrie said. “Ma’am, the flight attendants, the passengers in the car, they flew here. Crashed their plane to the north. There were passengers aboard. Children. They’re—”

  General Yoon cut her off. “Colonel Singh, speak to the refugees, prepare an extraction team.” She turned back to Corrie. “You have the orders in writing? From Guam?”

  “The colonel has them. At the airfield,” Corrie said.

  “Then we must fetch them,” the general said. “Trowbridge insisted on having the written order. Verbal confirmation wasn’t enough for him.” She shook her head and turned to her staff. “Major, deploy the drones. Flush the enemy out of the trees and re-secure the road.”

  Trailing after the general, they walked back up the road. Lacoona was on guard at the airport gate, alone. The colonel and the operator were both still in the tourist-information-military-command-centre, though the colonel appeared to be struggling to keep his eyes open. The general took the written message they had brought from Thunder Bay, and whic
h Jerome MacDonald had brought from Nanaimo.

  “This is it?” the general asked.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Corrie said. “Is there a problem?”

  The general turned the letter over. “For me, no. Trowbridge might think differently. Or Ms Winters might. She was expecting something more official.” The general refolded the paper. “It will do. We will make this work. Come. You will want to witness this.”

  “Where are we going, ma’am?” Olivia asked.

  “I sent a helicopter to Thunder Bay last night,” the general said. “We need ferries to evacuate the civilians. For the last three days, we’ve been dragooning them into the army, or to build and then defend roadside forts. Having reached the end of the easy advance, the refugees must be transported behind the lines where they can be trained or put to work in the fields. The helicopter returned with verbal confirmation of the message, and the information that you were bringing the original by road. You came from Australia? Tell me about it.”

  They ran through the now familiar summary of what they’d seen and how they’d ended up on the flight to Nanaimo.

  “You witnessed our battle from the control room?” the general asked as they approached the edge of the town proper. “Then you saw my tactics? You can tell them that in Australia. You must tell them. We face an enemy that will not retreat, that will not surrender, but nor can it attack us at long range. The reports I’ve received of efforts overseas, the rumours I heard, suggest we are, collectively, being lulled into a complacent defence. This will not bring victory. Nor will retreat. We must lure the enemy to us. Let them get close, and kill them close. Every bullet counts because the factories are behind enemy lines. You must tell Australia I need bullets. I need fuel. I need them to produce food, to secure the Pacific oilfields. I will provide them with refugees, with workers.”

  “You want to evacuate Canada?” Olivia asked.

  “Initially, I wish to evacuate the cities of North and South America,” the general said. “Removing the civilians removes the potential for them to be infected.”

  Which wasn’t really an answer, and nor did it explain where they were going. Pete wasn’t too bothered, since he’d just realised something else: the general had implied she wanted them to tell people in Australia what they’d seen. Tell them. In person. He didn’t smile. After the mercy-execution of the gate-guard, he wasn’t sure he ever would again, but he did let himself relax a fraction at the thought they might soon be leaving the frontline.

  At the beginning of the town of Wawa, a kilometre north of the airport, there were a reassuring number of uniforms, though most of the guards standing on the newly built ramparts didn’t look like soldiers. There were too many paunches, too many beards, too much long hair. Too much fear in the eyes of those standing on the uneven walls made of upturned flatbeds, planking, and prefab plasterboard. Outside were coils of razor wire, barbed wire, and sharpened metal poles. It didn’t look sturdy. It didn’t look secure. Not considering what they’d just witnessed. He shuddered.

  “There is no safety in defence,” the general said as if reading his mind, angling across the road towards an old garage just outside the walls. “You saw our enemy’s numbers? They will not tire. They will not retreat. That is why we must attack. Did you see the mobile fighting platforms?”

  “The crane-bases on caterpillar tracks?” Corrie asked. “We saw the camera footage.”

  “Height offers protection,” the general said. “They can’t climb. They can’t run. And if we attack, they won’t be able to mass together. If we break them now, we will be victorious by the year’s end. Tell them that in Australia. And tell them I need equipment. I need ammunition. I need Australia to become the factory of the world. And I need proper communications. But first I need Benton. Benton! Delores! Where are you, woman?” The general’s voice rose as she picked up her pace, storming into the garage’s lot. There were no barriers or barricades here, just a single guard standing in the turret of an armoured car Pete would have called a tank except it had wheels rather than treads, four on either side.

  “She’s below, ma’am,” the sentry said, saluting, before he ducked inside, bellowing. “Your Honour! The general wants you!”

  A hatch opened, and a grease-stained face peered out. “Jill?”

  “You’re wanted, Delores,” General Yoon said.

  “Trowbridge?” Delores Benton asked.

  “Yes,” the general said.

  “Do I have time to change?” Benton asked, crawling out of the tank. She was covered in grease except the parts covered in oil. “Damn thing should have been in a museum.”

  “We make history today, Delores. So yes, you must change. Five minutes, see it’s no longer.”

  Benton gave the old APC a swipe with the wrench, then trudged inside.

  “She’s a judge?” Corrie asked. “Or is she a mechanic?”

  “A judge foremost,” the general said. “Though we have little use for those now. Restoration was a hobby of hers. We found eight Coyotes, these armoured vehicles, awaiting decommissioning. Through prayer and luck, we got them this far, but spit and sweat won’t get them much further. Tell them that, that we are re-commissioning museum pieces.”

  Pete and Olivia shared a look, still unsure what was going on.

  “Ma’am, where exactly are we going? What does that message mean?” Olivia asked.

  “The sun rises in Denver,” the general said, leading them over to the barricade. A gap between two upturned trucks turned out to be a door, through which they stepped. The general gave a salute to the civilians in uniform. “Carry on.” And did the same herself, walking up the road, and into the town. “Yes, the sun rises in Denver, but the question we must ask ourselves is where will it set?”

  The reason for the convoy, the ferries, the order not to retreat, all became obvious as they followed the general through the town. Wawa was full. Behind every secured window faces peered at them. Some faces were old. Some were very young. Few were in between. In every doorway a civilian-soldier stood guard. And those guards, too, were either old, young, or injured.

  Crude chimneys jutted from holes in the brick and plasterwork, funnelling grey soot skywards. And now he was looking for it, Pete realised there were no electric lights. Of course it was daytime, but there was no sound of electricity either. No fans whirred, no music played, no heaters hummed, no illuminated signs blinked their wares. But there had been power at the airport. Clearly, as in Thunder Bay, electricity was restricted and rationed.

  The general led them to a police station. Outside, three flags fluttered gently in the cool breeze: two Canadian maple leafs, and one Stars and Stripes. In front of the doors stood two uniformed officers. Both in the bright red dress jackets of the RCMP, rather than military.

  “Lower our flags,” General Yoon said.

  One of the Mounties ran over to the flagpole while the other opened the door. Inside were more guards, but these weren’t police. Two men and two women, dressed in tactical gear with body armour over full combat uniform worn with such ease as to make Pete, in his borrowed uniform, feel like a fraud. They jumped to attention as the general entered.

  “At ease,” the general said. “You’ll want to watch this. Remember this. To tell your fellow nationals. Today we make history, for your country, yes, but also for the entire continent. The entire world.”

  The soldiers grinned, though they said nothing, while the general walked further into the bullpen. Those four soldiers weren’t the only people present. A larger group had taken over a trio of desks in the middle of the bullpen, while near the back, a woman sat in front of a closed door. Wearing tan-coloured hiking gear, thick black boots, and a red scarf tied around her neck, she jumped up as the general approached, and knocked on the door.

  It opened. Another woman came out, closing the door behind her. She was the strangest-looking person Pete had seen in days, but simply because she was dressed normally. Or what had been normal before the outbreak, in a pantsuit and he
els, but also with a red scarf around her neck.

  “General. Was your action a success?” the suited woman asked.

  “Ms Winters, we have taken the first steps on the road to victory. It’s time you walked a few of those steps yourself. Here.” General Yoon held out the message that had been flown in to Thunder Bay. “This is the official confirmation, signed by the admiral in charge of the Pacific fleet, countersigned by your ambassador to Beijing and the governors of Guam and Hawaii.”

  Winters took the piece of paper, but only gave it the briefest of indifferent glances. “It is important things are done correctly,” she said.

  “Agreed,” Yoon said, matching her frosty tone icicle-for-icicle. “The judge is on her way.”

  Winters’s eyes roamed across Pete, Corrie, and Olivia, before settling on Rufus. “Canadian soldiers are allowed pets?” she asked.

  “He’s trained for sniffing out terrorists hiding in caves,” General Yoon said instantly. “It makes him an expert at finding undesirables.” The general pointed at the door. “Is he ready?”

  “Hoyle, get Trowbridge,” Winters said.

  The woman who’d been sitting guard outside the office door nodded, and entered the office.

  Pete slotted the pieces together. A judge. A police station. Soldiers standing guard. Presumably all for a trial with one obvious ending. What was the name they’d mentioned? Trowbridge? He didn’t recognise it. Nor did he recognise the face, either, when the man emerged from the office.

  Short. Balding. Overweight. Over fifty. Badly shaved, with his face a mixture of nicks and missed bristles. Wearing a tie that was askew and too loose. Sweating, despite the cold. Blinking in the dim lamplight. Scared, yes, but he didn’t look like a prisoner. His hands were clasped together, gripping one another tightly as if he had nothing left to cling to but himself. But, oddly, Yoon snapped to attention, saluting as he approached.

  “Mr Trowbridge, sir,” Yoon said. “Confirmation has been received from your Pacific fleet. The sun rises in Denver. You are the senior surviving member of the cabinet, and the most senior survivor in the line of succession. Sir, you are the President of the United States.”